


Discards

by pollybywater



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, Angst, M/M, crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollybywater/pseuds/pollybywater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with Highlander, The Series.  An AU look at what might have happened to Blair and Methos after TSbBS and Endgame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discards

## Discards

#### by Akilah

  
Pet Fly and Bilsen/DeMeo owns The Sentinel, Rysher/Panzer/Davis owns Highlander. There is no profit in the making of modern fairy tales! Heh. No pun intended.  
This was one of those poetry-inspired stories that just grabbed me by the throat and demanded to be written. Took me two days; there's probably a warning in that, somewhere. So, a bonus for CarolROI who was soooooo patient about the Moonridge story I owed her. This story is a bit on the grim side of 'what if-'. Works better if you're familiar with both shows, but Methos explains immortality fairly well and all the non-Highlander fans really need to know is, Adam Pierson and Ben Adams are two of Methos' favored aliases.  
Rated PG for 'off-screen' violence and non-con.  
OTP'ers should probably avoid this. Seriously. You've been warned.  


* * *

_Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink_ _Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain_ , _Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink_ , _And rise and sink, and rise and sink again_ ; _Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath_ , _Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone_ ; _Yet many a man is making friends with death_ _Even as I speak, for lack of love alone_. - _Edna St. Vincent Millay_

* * *

"'For lack of love alone'," Blair whispered, and set aside the book of poetry he'd impulsively picked up at the bookstore last week. 

Last week, before everything in his life had gone to hell for the second time. Last week, when Jim was still his friend, lover, and sentinel. 

Last week - a lifetime ago, now. 

He finished his water, pitching the bottle into the trash as he heaved himself back up on his feet. Shouldering on his backpack, he left the rest stop and walked back out to the highway, thumb already in the air. 

The book of poetry lay deliberately abandoned on the bench behind him, pages fluttering in the breeze. 

* * *

Methos supposed he could have flown into Seacouver, but arranging a flight, surrendering his sword, and dodging the Watchers had felt like too much hassle compared to simply getting in a car and driving. A full tank of gas, an open road, and possibilities... he'd rather enjoyed his road trip, long though it had been, and even if it was a bit inconvenient when it came to certain matters. 

He pulled into a rest stop and made use of the men's room before dawdling towards the vending machines, spotting a book left behind on a covered bench. With the natural irritation of someone who loved books and hated to see them not being cherished, he picked it up and gently paged through it, amused to find poetry. 

One line leaped out at him, though, and he lost all sense of humor. 

_Yet many a man is making friends with death_. 

"'Making friends with Death', huh," he murmured, taking the book with him as he walked back to his car. 

Several minutes went by before he gathered the will to start the engine and pull away, driving onward. 

* * *

He'd gone thirty miles down the interstate and driven over a short bridge when the faint sense of another immortal flashed over him. Something about it felt sufficiently odd that Methos slowed down and pulled off the road. It wasn't unusual to feel such twinges while highway driving, but there were no passing cars on either side that could explain that momentary wash of weak presence. No exit ramps, no pull-outs, no nearby houses. 

Just that bridge. 

Reversing his car along the shoulder, he'd backed up to the end of the railing before he felt it again... struggling, almost strangled presence. Like someone trying to live, but reviving just enough to die again, he realized grimly. 

Cursing himself for having been influenced by a certain Scots boy scout, he parked his car and got out, looking about. A grassy verge extended a few feet, sloping sharply down into a moderately deep creekbed lined with riprap. Thick underbrush obscured the water Methos could hear behind it. 

He climbed over a chainlink fence with an irritated grumble, searching, and finally spotted a place where some of the brush was bent down and broken. 

That little burp of presence flared and faded once again, and Methos sighed to himself resignedly. Was he really going to do this? Yes, apparently so, and damn MacLeod anyway. 

He picked his way down to the edge of the riprap, easily moving over the uneven rocks until he could push the brush aside. As he'd anticipated, there was a body partially submerged in the water. 

Methos sighed aloud this time, for what had happened was all too obvious. Face down, long dark hair floating in lank seaweed patterns, jeans a soggy mass around one ankle, blood on the backs of those vulnerable thighs, hands tied, and with the haft of a knife protruding just beneath the left shoulderblade... it was clear the immortal had been raped, murdered, and dumped like so much trash. 

"Shit," Methos hissed sympathetically, reminded of times when he'd shared similar misfortunes. He wondered briefly if it would be kinder to simply take the child's head, but decided he could always do it later. 

Mind made up, Methos shed his coat and waded into the shallow water, wasting no time in pulling out the knife and cutting the hands free with the bloody blade. He wiped it free of fingerprints then tossed it aside before turning the body over, only a little startled to find the victim was male. Young, yes, but a grown man; skin translucently pale and stretched taut over strongly defined bone structure. 

Hoping that stubborn chin denoted a survivor, Methos untangled the man's jeans and redressed his lower body. Also as expected, there was no wallet - no ID - to be found in the man's clothing. Methos carried him away from the water, amused to find he was heavier than he looked. Once on the narrow strip of mud that served as a bank, Methos removed his own baggy sweater and worked it over the man's upper torso, hiding that bloodstained tee shirt, careful to free the long hair where it was trapped under the collar. 

After considering it for a moment, he pulled off the man's remaining sneaker, thinking it better to have none than worry about having only one. He tossed the shoe downstream before shrugging back into his coat, sword at hand. 

Then Methos waited, knowing it wouldn't be long now. 

* * *

He sucked in a gasp of air that felt like breathing fire, existing as nothing but pain. The searing agony of being forced, violated, and used layered itself over his sure knowledge that he deserved no better, he deserved to die, for he was nothing - worse than nothing - a betrayer, a Judas, that's what he was... 

...then Alex was drowning him yet again, and it hurt, water burning into his lungs, suffocating him. 

It hurt. _It hurt_. 

"I need a partner I can trust," he dimly recalled, accusations that felt like the knife blade flaying patterns into his skin. "What did you do? What did you do?" 

And with those confused memories battering at him, the man who had been Blair Sandburg lost his mind and let his subconscious lock his old life away. 

* * *

Presence surged, and large blue eyes opened to stare at him blankly. Methos recognized that shell-shocked indifference for what it was - sanity sacrificed to a trauma too great to bear. 

Saddened, he held out one hand. 

"We need to go," he said simply, curious to see how the other would react. Methos knew of at least a half-dozen monasteries that would take the child in and offer long-term sanctuary, but the part of him that had spent centuries studying medicine wondered if he could help the child himself. 

Which probably made him as mad as his new companion, come to think on it. Still, he'd once spent a millennium being insane, himself, so that notion held little fear. 

"Come, child," Methos prompted, and a sturdy hand took his as the young man stood. A bit below average height, he was startlingly handsome now that he was awake. His hair was curling as it dried, showing hints of chestnut and auburn, framing a face that was memorable for those vivid eyes and lush lips. A very unique face, Methos decided, rather pleased that it didn't particularly remind him of anybody. 

He gave a tug, and the young man followed him to the car, sure-footed over the rocks and unfazed by the fence. He soundlessly allowed Methos to buckle him into the passenger seat, and remained perfectly silent as Methos got in, started the car, and pulled away... although his eyes watched Methos constantly. 

That was something Methos approved wholeheartedly, because it meant that somewhere inside his companion there lingered a glimmer of self-protection, or at least simple curiosity. 

It was better than nothing. 

"My name is Adam. We're going to have to give you a name, child, until you remember your own. Was that your first death, I wonder? You're very young, I can tell, because I'm very old, despite appearances. I think we both need a wash and some dry clothing. I rather doubt my clothes will fit you, you know. There's a blanket in the back seat, why don't you get it if you're cold." Methos kept up a soothing patter, quite relieved when the child reached back and retrieved the woven throw, pulling it around his shoulders with a tired sigh. 

"So, you aren't unreachable... which means, you aren't unteachable. That's good to know, although all this silent obedience is a bit worrying. What shall we do now, young one? I can't take you with me to Seacouver. I'm afraid you'd be easy pickings in Immortal Central. Hmm, MacLeod's island would make a perfect refuge, especially since Mac is in New York. Joe will help us with supplies and such, I'm sure." 

He looked over to find his charge had nodded off to sleep. 

Just as well. They still had a few hours to drive. 

* * *

"Somehow I never saw you as a nanny to baby immortals, Adam," Joe Dawson said. 

"Why the bloody hell do you think I've been hanging around MacLeod, then," Methos snapped into his cell phone, grinning despite himself when Joe started laughing. 

He checked on his companion, who was sitting in the tub letting the water shower down. Methos had only to tell him 'go take a shower' and he'd gone, but if Methos hadn't gone in and moderated the water temperature the child would have scalded himself raw. 

Methos actually thought that was probably another good sign that the personality behind those blank blue eyes was trying to break free, even if it was expressing itself in a self-destructive fashion. Immortal healing or not, however, he didn't want the child injuring himself. 

"I could use your help, Joe," he said. 

"You got it, my friend. You know that. What can I do?" 

"We're spending the night in a motel in Everett, and tomorrow I'm taking him out to Mac's island. He needs clothes, and we'll need food. Can you organize that? I can't leave him unattended. He needs protection." Methos had retrieved the clammy, grimy clothing the child had removed, and he read off the sizes inside to Joe before tossing them back on the floor. 

Pity he hadn't made a note of that shoe's size, he mused wryly. 

"Yeah, sure, no problem. He hasn't spoken since you found him, huh." 

"Not a word." 

"You don't think he's naturally mute?" 

"I think it's because he's so traumatized. Hell of a way to die, Joe, whether it was his first death or not." 

"Adam..." 

"I know. I can't just abandon him, though." 

"You're a softie, old man." 

"Bite your tongue, Dawson." 

"See ya tomorrow." 

Pitching the phone on the dresser, Methos went back into the bathroom to retrieve his 'baby immortal'. He turned off the water and only then realized the young man was crying, fat tears silently sliding down those too-pale cheeks. 

"Come, child," Methos said and held out a hand - an action that was rapidly becoming familiar. This time the young one took his hand immediately, allowing Methos to help him out of the tub. He stood motionless while Methos dried him and then dressed him in Methos' own over-large sweatpants and tee, an occasional tear still trickling free as Methos led him into the main room. 

He allowed Methos to install him at the small table by the window, flinching when a knock on the door announced the pizza Methos had ordered but otherwise not reacting. 

When Methos opened the box in front of him, he reached for a piece automatically and started eating, confirming Methos' suspicion that he had to be hungry. Since Methos was hungry too, the meal passed without comment, but when they were finished eating Methos took his hand again and led him to the bed. 

For the first time, he actively resisted, pulling his hand free and backing away. Methos smiled, glad to see it. He sat at the edge of the bed and patted the mattress beside him, and spoke quietly into those huge blue eyes. 

"You're a pretty thing, but my heart is engaged elsewhere, child. I wish only to sleep. I would like to hold you, because I expect you'll have nightmares, and I'd like to protect you from them if I can. You may need to be reminded that you aren't alone. I promise you, I won't hurt you. I merely want to keep you alive until you can take care of yourself." 

That curly head tilted to one side, and Methos had the idea he was being questioned, so he chose an answer based on his favorite subject. 

"Oh, yes, I'm in love with a perfectly marvelous thick-headed Scot who is such a dedicated heterosexual that one could use him for a plumb line," Methos confessed wryly, shrugging slightly. "He's a friend. He's such a paragon of virtue I call him a boy scout." 

The corner of the youngster's mouth twitched into a tiny grin, and he pointed at Methos and lifted his eyebrows interrogatively. Methos had to laugh, delighted by that small show of spirit. 

"Me? No, I'm no boy scout. I'm just a guy. An old guy, but just a guy." 

Again with those mobile eyebrows, and Methos sighed. 

"Very old, child. I am immortal, as you are. We cannot die, except under certain specific circumstances that I'm not going to share with you until you're further along in your recovery." 

The young one frowned, then startled Methos by picking up his blood stained tee shirt, which he held up before pointing at himself. 

"Oh, yes, you were dead, but not permanently." 

The tee shirt was thrown to the floor and a shaking hand scrubbed over a downcast head. Methos waited, and when that wet gaze finally lifted to his, he held out his hand once again. 

"Come, child." 

To his surprise, his hand was taken as his companion sat beside him, then scooted over in the bed, making room. Methos switched off the lamp and lay down after making sure his trench coat - and sword - were within easy reach. The shivering form beside him gradually began to relax, curling tentatively into his body, and Methos found himself stroking that soft hair. 

Hoping it would calm the young one, he began talking softly. 

"The oldest of our kind is said to be over five thousand years old, child... as old as human civilization on this planet. So many amazing things to have seen, so much yet to learn... it's not so bad, being immortal, when you learn that a mortal lifetime becomes a transitory thing, and the events of each lifetime are mere ephemera. 

"' _Receive thy new possessor: one who brings a mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in it self can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven_ '." 

"That's Milton," a raspy voice supplied from somewhere around Methos' chest. He forced himself not to overreact, careful to keep up his cautious petting. 

"Yes. You like Milton?" 

"I don't know. I guess I must have, but I don't remember." 

Methos felt his breath catch, and sighed it out slowly. 

"What do you remember?" 

"Stuff. Like what a shower is and how to drive and Milton. Just- stuff. I don't know who I am or who you are. Something bad happened to me, didn't it." 

It wasn't a question, and it wasn't in Methos to sugarcoat the facts. 

"Yes. You were raped and murdered. I found you on the side of the highway." 

"I don't remember. I remember being in the shower and feeling very sad and alone... then you came. You took care of me. Thank you." 

"You're welcome, child," Methos said hoarsely, unexpectedly near tears himself. This hit too close to home. He didn't remember his own first death or the life he'd led before it, and he'd often wondered if some terrible trauma had scoured those memories out of his brain. 

Did this mean the young one would never remember his pre-immortal life? 

"You don't know your name, then," he said after he cleared his throat. 

"No, sorry. What's yours?" 

"Adam Pierson. What shall we call you until you remember?" 

The young one shrugged. 

"Why not John Milton. He's been dead for three hundred years, I don't think he'll care... uh, he _is_ dead dead, isn't he?" 

"As far as I know, yes," Methos replied seriously. "John Milton it is, then, until we find out differently." 

"Good, then you can stop calling me 'child'. I don't know how old I am but I'm sure I'm not a kid." 

"As you wish, John. Go to sleep now, please. We've a long day ahead of us." 

"Okay, Adam." 

* * *

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into? You look tired." 

Methos gave his mortal friend a wry smile as they watched John move supplies from the trunk of Joe Dawson's car into the boat Methos had rented to take them to MacLeod's island. John had volunteered to do the loading, pointing out rather cheekily that he looked younger than either of the other men so the old-timers might as well take it easy. Joe had waved his cane in a mock threat, prompting John to laugh... an incredibly lovely sound, Methos thought, and one he hoped to provoke again. 

"Dawson, I have taken students before... granted, not in centuries, but." He shrugged. "If I look tired, it's my own fault. I slept lightly because I was afraid John would have nightmares." 

"Did he?" 

"No. He woke bouncing this morning. I can't decide if he's just psychotic or if he's the strongest person I've ever met. To simply lock it all away like that and accept everything I've told him about immortality..." Methos shook his head, genuinely baffled. 

"It'll come out sooner or later." 

"Will it? Would it be such a bad thing, I wonder, if it didn't." 

Joe looked at him with too much understanding in those mortal eyes, because Joe knew his history and recognized the similarities. 

"How many cases of beer did you bring, Mr. Dawson?" John asked, providing a timely interruption as he came up to them, huffing and puffing exaggeratedly. 

"About a week's worth, knowing this old reprobate, and call me Joe," Joe said with a grin. John's eyebrows went up as he tapped Methos on the stomach. 

"Immortal liver function, huh. Cool!" He turned and went back for the last load, leaving Methos and Joe regarding each other bemusedly. 

"It probably was his first death. We don't have records of any known immortal that meets his description. There haven't been any missing persons reports filed with the cops yet, either. Somebody may start looking for him soon, though. I'll let you know if I hear anything," Joe said quietly, one hand squeezing Methos' shoulder. 

"You're going back to New York?" 

"That's where MacLeod is. It's just luck you caught me in Seacouver. I only got here two days ago- flew in for the Western Regional meeting. Why were you coming here?" 

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was drawn here," Methos said. Joe rolled his eyes. 

"Whatever. Watch your head, my friend." 

"Always, Joe, and thanks for this." 

"You're welcome, Adam. Keep me posted." 

"I will. Do me a favor and keep this between us. I really don't need MacLeod coming out here to tell me I've gone mad." 

"Sure thing, teach." 

They exchanged a brief hug, then the watcher waved a goodbye at John and got in his car, driving away. Methos wondered what Joe would have said if had he admitted he'd been coming to Seacouver out of some pathetically sentimental urge to say goodbye to the place before departing for points unknown. That had been his original plan, when he'd decided the entire western hemisphere wasn't large enough for him, MacLeod, and MacLeod's Kate to be in it together. 

Then the Fates had intervened and dropped a student in his lap. 

All things considered, he was glad, now. Mortal lifetimes were so short, and Joe would have missed him if he'd disappeared. 

"Ready to go?" John asked gently, and Methos smiled into those young/old eyes. 

"Yes, indeed." 

* * *

"MacLeod's your thick-headed Scot? And this is his island?" John asked as Methos steered their little boat towards the shore, the low puttputt of the outboard almost soothing in the slowly lifting fog. 

"Yes. Mac's in New York with his fashion designer girlfriend, and he won't mind us using the island. It's holy ground." 

"That's significant?" 

"It is. Inside every immortal there is energy. We call it our quickening. You can feel mine in your head, can't you?" Methos asked. 

"Yeah, I guess. I didn't know that's what it was. I didn't feel anything from Mr. Dawson, though." 

"He isn't immortal. Only immortals can feel each other's quickening. Call it an early warning system. Our quickenings are the key to our immortality because they exist forever, even after we truly die. 

"Some immortals, who play what we call the Game, will try to take your quickening, John. There are, as I said, specific circumstances under which that can be done, but one of the rules says it cannot be done on holy ground." 

"There are rules?" John asked curiously. 

"There are always rules, aren't there?" Methos said with a shrug, cutting the motor and allowing the boat to beach itself in an easy grind. 

They got out silently, working together to pull the boat further up on the shore, and Methos was pleased when he didn't have to tell John to tie the boat's tow line to the nearest tree. 

"The cabin is up that way," he motioned to the barely visible beginnings of a footpath, not surprised when John retrieved a box of their supplies before heading that way. He'd already twigged to the fact that John wasn't lazy by nature, and filled his own arms before following after. 

Some time later, when everything had been carried in and unpacked, they sat on the porch, beers in hand. John had kicked off Methos' ill-fitting shoes and was stocking-footed and comfortably cross-legged. 

"What happens if an immortal loses a quickening on holy ground?" He asked as if their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. 

"Are you familiar with the eruption of Mount Vesuvius?" 

"The volcano in Italy that destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum." 

"Yes," Methos confirmed, inwardly marveling at the intricacies of John's memory that allowed facts like that to remain while shedding all personal information. "That's believed to be the result of immortals battling on holy ground." 

"Wow... So why are you helping me? If there's that much power in a quickening, and immortals take each other's quickenings, why haven't you taken mine?" 

"Not all immortals play the Game. I try to avoid it, personally. And no offense, John, but your quickening is very young. Wait a few centuries, then we'll see." 

John chuckled, raising his beer bottle to Methos in tribute. 

"Fair enough. I'd still like to know why you're putting yourself out like this, though. You've gone to a lot of trouble-" John subsided when Methos held up one hand. 

"I have my reasons. Once I was like you, new to my immortality, with no memory of the life I'd lived before or how I lost it. What I do for you now is what I wish I'd had done for me," he said with some reluctance, picking over his answer. 

"Are you always this honest?" John asked him unexpectedly, and Methos smiled, gratified by his student's sharp perception. 

"There are those who would insist I've never spoken an honest word in my life... but lying to you would be pointless. How would you know? No fun in that." 

A momentary shadow crossed John's eyes, then he shrugged it off and took a sip of his beer. 

"What are your other reasons?" 

"Immortal males cannot father children. We are all sterile," Methos said bluntly and watched John absorb his words. "Should we die, we will leave no legacy to the future save via those students we have chosen who can carry our teachings forward." 

"You want- you want me to be your student?" 

"You already are. It's not indentured servitude, John. I won't keep you with me against your will... but you must realize how much there is to learn, particularly in your case. We've hardly begun to scratch the surface. If you are to live, you must learn to defend yourself against other immortals and how to survive in this world. I am willing to teach you." 

John stared at him searchingly, that piercing gaze cutting right through him. John's next words were almost too much for Methos to bear, however, cutting through him. 

"You're lonely. That's also a reason." 

Methos dropped his gaze. One thumbnail absently picked the label off his beer bottle while he wondered just how much honesty he was expected to tolerate in one day. 

Still, there was something liberating about having someone in his life with whom he could be so _bare_ , which left him giving John the truth. 

"Yes, I've been very lonely." 

John nodded. 

"I've been lonely, too. I remember that feeling. I don't feel lonely with you, Adam. I'd be honored to be your student." 

And this time John held out his hand for Methos to take. 

* * *

Thirty years later, they stood hand in hand at Joe Dawson's funeral, both weeping unashamedly as one of the best friends either man had ever had was laid to rest. 

"Methos. John. Thanks for coming," Duncan MacLeod said to them after the service, once the three of them were alone at the graveside. His own eyes were wet and red-rimmed. Kate was conspicuous by her absence, having long since made it clear she would never understand how MacLeod could be so close to his mortal watcher. 

"He was a good friend," John replied quietly, his eyes resting gently on the grieving Scot. "Are you going to be all right?" 

"Aye, eventually." Duncan sighed, accent thickened with sorrow. He offered them a wistful smile. "D'ye know how much he loved the both o' ye? The cards, the calls, and the visits... How he bragged on your progress, John. Methos, I wanted to thank ye for that, for being so good ta him and keepin' him a part o' your lives. He died knowin' he was loved. Means a lot ta me." 

"We did love him, Mac, and we love you too. If you need us, you have only to call," Methos said as he and John wrapped their arms around MacLeod, holding the big Scot until they'd all calmed. John pulled away first, sparing a pat to MacLeod's shoulder and an extra squeeze of Methos' arm before walking away, thoughtfully giving the two older immortals some time alone. 

Dark eyes inspected Methos closely. 

"Ye've changed so much, I canna hardly feature it." 

"I'm happy, Mac. We're happy together, John and I." 

"Aye, and it shows, man. I'm glad." Duncan hesitated. "Joe found out who John was, ye know. He's left me the information, should ye want it someday." 

"He told me. I'll ask John. If he wants to know, we'll be in touch." 

"Where are ye off to, then?" 

"Seacouver first. Joe-" 

"I know," Duncan interrupted with a faint grin. "His personal Methos journals. He told me." 

They smiled at each other; two men content with their lives and their strong friendship. 

"Watch your head, old man." 

"Always, Mac. Always." 

* * *

The Seacouver airport hadn't changed much. Still busy, still crowded, still wall to wall noise. John waited for their luggage. Methos was arranging a rental vehicle, and John had to grin, privately amused by the impatience that radiated from that powerful Presence. 

"Blair? My God, Blair?" 

John looked around and saw an elderly man he didn't recognize, tall, thin, and balding. Pale blue eyes stared at him in frank confusion. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"I'm sorry, you just- you look so much like somebody I used to know, but he'd be much older... Are you related to-" 

"Problem, John?" Methos asked cheerfully, arriving beside him with a flourished wave of a keycard. "We have transportation." 

"That's great, Ben," John said, sliding one welcoming arm around Methos' waist. "And no, no problem. I think." He shrugged, then grinned sunnily at his husband of two decades. 

"Ah, no, sorry. Just a case of mistaken identity," the old man said slowly, limping away to melt into the crowd. 

"He recognized you," Methos guessed quietly, giving a close-cropped curl a gentle tug. 

"Doesn't matter. I don't know him." John smiled. "All I know is you, beloved." 

"That's so bloody sweet. You're a dreadful mushball, John. How's this? ' _My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight_ '," Methos quoted softly, returning that beautiful smile. 

"Not bad, ' _best image of myself and dearer half_ '," the man who now called himself John Milton Adams quoted back as they fetched their bags and left the airport, laughing. 

End  
8 Oct, '04 

* * *

End Discards by Akilah: akilah_du_kefirah@yahoo.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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